Have her stay

Dear Diary,

It is much later in the evening, but I have learned a little more of this strange domain that I have found myself in. Most of which I learned from Anglica, the house **** who attended to getting me to bed.

“Stay.” I told her, in part because I was used to having a maid help me with changing, but just as much because I wanted a chance to talk to another female, even a **** like her. “Tell me your name.”

“Angelica, if it pleases you, Mistress.” I turned my back on her and let her work at the row of buttons that secured my dress. As she worked, I studied her in the mirror. She and I were not all that different in appearance; my skin was fairer but whether from birth or the almost daily washing with lemon juice that Mama insisted on I could not tell. Her lips were even fuller than mine, but our noses were similar in shape and eyes too. Were it not for the wild tangle of curls I wonder if she, like I, could pass for white ...

“Why is your hair like that?” I ask almost angrily, “Why isn't it in braids or covered like the other house slaves?”

“Forgive me Mistress, the master, the old master liked it like this. He told me he always wanted to see it free to blow in the wind.” So many thoughts filled my mind at once that I could not even speak. The old master, that was my father, seemed to have a special relationship with this young woman. That and the irony of a man wanting his ****'s hair to be free even as the woman herself was not ... but most of all I wondered if my father took Angelica to his bed ... she was my age, maybe at most a year or two older ... I couldn't ask her that, and even if I dared, what would I have wanted her to say?

Angelica:

“Is this alright for tonight?” As I was lost in thought Angelica had opened a draw and selected one of my cream-colored sleeping gowns. I still couldn't trust my voice, so I simply nodded and let the girl pull the dress over my head. She asked if she should brush out my hair, but I didn't want her to see my hair. It took special time and patience to keep it tamed, and I was not willing to let her, or any other negro **** see how similar it was to hers.

“Tell me about Mr. Kyleson.” I figured the more I knew about that objectional man, the better I'd be able to deal with my father's plantation manager. Not that it really matters that much, with the **** of my father the reason for being here is gone. After the reading of the will, I doubt I'll stay for more than one or two days at the most.

The way the poor ****'s body stiffened told me much more than her carefully chosen words.

“He's a good Master, Miss.”_ and then, perhaps sensing that her hushed whisper lacked confidence she quickly added in a much louder tone_: “Mr. Heyward is lucky to have him handling things ...” I cannot help but wonder if Mr. Kyleson had **** himself on this pretty girl. Or perhaps he had plans to. If Angelica was my father's ... I believe the correct term is 'fancy girl' ... he was unlikely to have shared her. Now however, without my father's patronage, things might get much more difficult for Angelica.

“Will that be all, Mistress? I will be needed downstairs.”

After she left, I added this entry to the journal along with the sketch of that poor ****. If I were in a better place, I might try to protect her from that coarse manager, but as it stands now there is little I can do.

I shut the diary a little too hard for an antique that is almost 200 years old and push it to the far side of the kitchen table with unsteady hands. The similarities between Bianca and the **** must be more than a coincidence. Clearly, Mr. Heyward had a preference for light-skinned young slaves. Perhaps it is a good thing that Bianca's father was not alive to see how beautiful a woman his daughter had grown into.

It's past time for bed, and a workday, but I know I'm not likely to be able to sleep.